


The Me You Used to Know

by timorous_scribe



Series: Used to Know [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/F, Infidelity, Marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timorous_scribe/pseuds/timorous_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slightly AU - veers off just before Finchel engagement (so that didn’t happen). Opposite POV/follow up to The You I Used to Know. Future fic, Santana at twenty-two, musing in a series of flashbacks over her recent breakup with Quinn and their path to it. Angst. Inspired by the Goyte song that would NOT leave my head until I did something with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Me You Used to Know

_February, 2016_

Santana wore a smirk as she slid on her sunglasses, walking out of the Verizon store with a little bag dangling from her arm and a swing of self-satisfaction in her step. She stopped on the curb to look up and down the street from behind the shaded aviators...what to do now?

She had a new contract, a shiny new phone with all the accessories, and most importantly—she had a new number. The sales guy hadn't needed much convincing to delete Quinn's contact for her before transferring her stuff; a quick bra adjustment that happened to flash a little tit and he waived the transfer fee, too.

She'd just needed to get out and _do_ something with herself after the guys had left that morning, bound for the apartment she used to call home. The silence had echoed around her as soon as the door closed behind them, throwing the reality of her situation into stark relief. There was a gnawing feeling like if she didn’t go change her phone number right then, she’d answer when Quinn inevitably called, and she’d cave.

Santana was tired of caving to Quinn.

She turned left on the busy sidewalk and headed back in the general direction of the bro-partment, rolling her eyes at herself for even thinking of it as the ‘bro-partment.’ She reasoned in her own defense that the boys had been very clear with their rules for staying when she'd showed up on their doorstep the day before with her car packed tight.

_“No bitching about toilet seats, what’s on the tv, what food is or isn’t in the fridge, the location or smell of my socks...” Puck ticked off the items on his fingers as they were listed_

_“Or sneakers!” Sam chimed in from the living room sofa._

_“Or sneakers." Puck nodded. "Nothing about any noises you hear at night, or any—No. Ya’know what?” He stopped himself and looked at Sam for a moment before turning back to Santana._

_“How ‘bout this: no bitching. At all.” He blinked at her vacantly for several beats before grinning with a wink. “Or pants. That’s totally a rule.” He threw an arm around her neck and leaned in after that to quietly tell her she was welcome for as long as she needed. She nodded with her head down, affection for her might-as-well-be brother warming her chest._

_“Thanks, guys. I know it’s a small apartment and I re—” She started to say, feeling grateful and maybe even a little meek._

_“Dude!” Sam exclaimed, jumping up from the couch._

_“Whoaaaa, whoawhoawhoa, there.” Puck stopped her mid-sentence with a hand held up. “This is a **bro** -partment.” _

_The roll of her eyes was answered with twin unflinching stares._

_“This is important, Santana.” Sam told her solemnly. “It’s our home-space, our-our...” He waved his hand in a circle, trying to pull the word out of the air. “It’s like the Lair, or the Batcave. You can’t just call it a **cave**.” When she only blinked at him blankly he turned back to Puck. _

_“I dunno if this will work out, dude.”_

_The reply was Santana's chastising backhand to his abs before she took his spot on their couch, nervously eyeballing the squawking parrot in the corner of the room._

Shit, that was another reason to find something else to do before she went back to their place. She started scanning for a coffee shop as she walked, someplace she could sit down and maybe set up her new phone. Even the hipster crowd preening at Starbucks was better than listening to that goddamned feathered buffalo wing call her a cunt again. She already felt like she’d somehow let Quinn down by leaving, despite everything that pushed her there.

It was eating at her that her ‘last straw’ wasn't really anything Quinn had done; she questioned if she was getting a jump on pre-empting the inevitable... or if she was just giving up. She was so tired of fighting for their relationship, fighting against Quinn.

Santana told herself that it was self-preservation. She told herself she was just smart enough to recognize a death toll when she heard it.

She absently noted the Starbucks up the block across the street and turned at the corner, her mind rolling over the conversation a week before that put a boot to her ass.

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016 (early the week before)_

“Yeah, and then she said that cats aren’t allowed in the mail because of the scans? But I thought that was hospitals, so I think she might just want to keep him.”

Santana pinned the phone between her cheek and shoulder while she carried her breakfast into the living room, _mm-hmm_ ’ing in the right places during Brittany’s story.

"Oh! I forgot to tell you, I'll be in New York at the end of the month!" Brittany gushed. Santana hit the speaker button and set the phone on her thigh, digging into her bowl of peanut butter Cap’n Crunch.

"Oh yeah? Sweet! What for?"

"Kurt asked me to come heat his house or something? I dunno, but I knew I'd get to see you if I came, so I said yes." Santana's brows furrowed briefly as she translated.

"Heat his house... like house-warming? Did he move?" Santana knew Kurt had moved back into the dorms at NYADA (even though he was a junior) when he broke up with Blaine the year before. She had never been particularly close with him—and therefore didn't really care—but in the interest of nostalgia (that she would never admit to) she was generally curious about the whereabouts and goings on of her former teammates.

"Yeah, I guess 'cause Rachel needed somewhere to stay." Brittany mentioned the diva nonchalantly, Santana's spoon stopping mid-air on its way to her mouth at the name. "Oh! Can we go to the zoo while I'm there, San? I really love that big one in the park." The blonde continued excitedly, glossing over the tidbit of information.

Santana dropped her spoon into the barely touched bowl of cereal with a clang, suddenly not very hungry.

"Sure, Britt. Hey, why did Rachel need somewhere to stay? Isn't she playing Mrs. Mediocre-Life in Jersey?" Santana was on her feet and pacing the apartment before she even realized she'd gotten up.

"She was, but Kurt said she caught Finn getting a blowie from some girl at the shop and got mad, so she got a place in SoHo with him." Brittany's tone was conversational, like she didn't know what a terrifying thought it was to her best friend that Rachel was single. "If blow jobs bother her so much she really shouldn't be moving in with Kurt, but Rachel's never been very smart about boys."

Santana's stomach rolled on itself; less than a year out from the wedding and Rachel was separated enough to sign a lease. She knew Finn-ept was... well, he was _inept_ , but she had counted on Rachel's inexplicable devotion to the Ent to keep them together.

Did Quinn know yet? Her eyes swept around their shared home with a bittersweet filter over her vision, a montage of moments from the last year and a half they’d lived there blending together. Granted, the last few months had been strained, but still...

Santana’s lips tightened into a thin line as she realized Quinn wouldn't tell her even if she had already heard.

"San? Santana?" She was pulled from the growing ball of dread in her gut by Brittany's voice. "Are you there?"

"Yeah, Britts, I'm here." She mumbled quietly, rubbing the palm of her hand down her face. She cleared her throat to move the knot forming. "So they're having the party—when’d you say? End of the month?"

Brittany _mm-hmm_ 'd and the line went silent between them for a few moments.

"How's stuff with Quinn?" She asked softly, breaking the quiet. Santana _tch_ 'd derisively, her eyes fixed on her girlfriend’s favorite coffee mug on the breakfast bar.

They'd barely even been speaking, going through the motions of coexistent classes, jobs, and sleeping without really engaging one another except to occasionally have sex (it was never sweet) or fight (also rather bitter). Their relationship had degraded to a very tense roommates-that-fucked situation, and Santana was slowly coming to accept that the love she held for Quinn was dying.

She was at least a little embarrassed admitting to herself that she _still_ wondered if the blonde ever returned it in kind.

“Peachy-keen, Britts.” Santana responded, her distraction evident in her voice. “Hey. I think I’m gonna let you go, ‘kay? I’ll call you back later, I gotta... do some stuff. Love you.” She could hear the blonde’s protest even as she ended the call. She stood in their kitchen, tapping her nails against the countertop and chewing on her lip in thought.

She had to pull her shit together before Quinn got home from work. If the other girl didn’t know Rachel’s new status yet, Santana wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten her. The brunette knew the news would travel quick enough through their loosely linked phone tree on its own, without her help. She was honestly surprised to just now be hearing about it, considering the alleged adultery happened long enough ago that Rachel had already moved out.

The panic of knowing her girlfriend felt dangerously close to no longer being hers—just because a Hobbit left its tree—had her moving through the apartment again, one thumb sliding across the screen of her phone while she chewed at the nail of the other. Santana scrolled through her contacts list, hitting the entry she thought would be her best source of good info on this situation. Lifting the phone to her ear, she paused her stride at the window to gaze unseeing at the street below.

“You’re a go for the Puckeroni.” Puck’s deep voice rumbled through the speaker and Santana, despite her worried mood, couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

“‘ _You’re a go for_ —’ what even, Puck? Seriously, why do I talk to you? You’re such a ‘tard-star.” She shook her head, fingers pressing into her forehead and trying to ease some of the ache in her brain. He chuckled in response.

“‘Cause I’m your bro-twin, _duh_. So wassup, my sexy salsa mamacita? You want some spicy Puck-led pepper?” He smacked his lips into the phone and she snorted. “You know I love your Tostitos...” He continued with a goofy faked suaveness.

Santana nearly laughed out loud at ‘Tostitos,’ she could almost hear the sleazy eyebrow wiggle over the phone line. She grinned in spite of herself and thought somewhere in the back of her mind that _this_ was why she talked to him.

“Then you best be makin’ a run for the border 'cause you ain’t gettin’ none of this taco.” She smirked, turning away from the window and taking two steps before her feet stopped on their own.

A 5x8 photo of her and Quinn was framed on the wall above their coat-rack, snapped at a friend's New Year’s party the last night of 2014. It was one of the in-between-poses shots, a candid moment caught on film.

That night was during what she thought of now as the best stretch of their relationship, they even looked like they were in love. The photo showed them seated on a sofa with their arms wrapped around each other, Santana leaned back slightly in the embrace to look at Quinn, her whole presence simply happy with her expression captured mid-laugh.

Quinn, meanwhile, gazed directly into the camera with a clever and wicked sort of grin on her face, her hair fallen forward and covering one eye while the other stared out from the photo and straight into Santana standing in the living room. The reason she’d called sobered her short-lived smile immediately.

"S, baby girl, I've _had_ that ta—"

"What do you know about the Finchel fiasco?" She tumbled out, her sudden shift in gears to soft desperation cutting off Puck's laughing retort. He knew her well enough to read the tone and sighed heavily, all the mirth draining out of him.

"Augh, San, is that why you called? I can't—" He stopped himself, groaning in frustration before letting the line lull into silence for long seconds. Santana held her breath without realizing it, chastising herself as soon as she noticed. She already _knew_ it was true. There was no suspense to this revelation, and still part of her needed to know how bad it was.

She was mildly disgusted with herself to find she was hanging an entire three-year relationship on Rachel Fucking Berry's sex life. Quinn smirked at her from the photo and Santana clenched her eyes closed.

“He’s still my _bro_.” Puck breathed out. “And I mean, I know you’re my girl, but he’s like—” He hefted another sigh and she felt a momentary, but still irritating, twinge of sympathy for his role in the situation.

“Look, Pusserman.” She snapped, stalking in paces back and forth across the hardwood while she spoke. “Brittany already knew, which means _everyone_ will know by next week. She found out from Kurt, which means everyone will know by _tomorrow_. That all means Rachel’s talking and if I have to, I’ll just call _her_ since you seem to have left your—I must admit, _overhyped_ —balls in Finn’s mouth.”

She paused to take a breath, listening to see if he’d bite. It was an outright lie, the only person she wanted to talk to less than Quinn right now was Rachel Berry—no wait, Rachel _Hudson_ —but Puck didn’t need to know that.

“Is it for real, or is she just throwing a fit?” She waited again in silence for several beats after the question, mouth opening and closing a few times with things she didn’t want to reveal. Somehow they kept queuing themselves on the tip of her tongue; she’d barely managed to catch the _‘should I be this fucking scared’_ before it came waterfalling out in self-revelatory word vomit.

“She’s not going back.” Puck said firmly. “I—I do know more but I really can’t can’t _can’t_ share, Santana.” His voice was resigned but steady, a touch of pleading coloring the way he said her name. “But if that’s all you’re after, there you go.” Santana heard him take a breath like he was going to say more and she waited.

“You—” Puck stopped himself again, his halting language uncharacteristic and kind of freaking her out even more. His tone dropped to a low pitch. “I would... just, promise me you’ll pay attention, okay? I mean, I love you, S. Just—yeah. Pay attention.” He inhaled deeply and her brows drew together in a tight furrow as she let her body wither to the bar stool beside her. He couldn’t be saying...

“What are you saying, Puck?” The query was sharp and the waver in it not well-hidden.

“That’s really all I got for ya, babe.” He was back to sounding tired and detached, and Santana suddenly felt like she was going to be sick. Her gaze darted around the kitchen, touching on every fixture and edge without seeing them.

“If I’ve got something to ‘pay attention’ to, why are you just _now_ telling me?” She poured all the cold and cutting she could find into the question and Puck didn’t offer a reply. Santana braced her forehead against her palm, her fingers tangling into her hair while thoughts whizzed through her mind too quickly to congeal. “When did it happen? When did she leave?” ‘ _Why does it matter so much’_ she vaguely registered the question somewhere in the back of her mind and silenced it.

“January 17th.”

“Over a _month ago_ , Puck!?” She screeched, her palm slapping the countertop. “She’s been trolling around New York single for a _month_ and you didn’t tell me!?”

“Hey... heyheyhey, wait just a sec here, sweetheart!” He cut in, his voice hardening as he recognized her gear-up to bitch him out. “Maybe you oughta stop and think for a minute _why it fucking matters_ before you take a chunk outta MY ass for not spreading the juicy gossip, a’right?”

She winced and nodded, knowing he couldn’t see her, then bit down on her lower lip to stop the tears from welling up. The fire kept rolling and snapping in her stomach but deflated from her speech.

“Hey, look... Thanks, okay? You—you’re right, Puck, it’s not your fault. I’ll talk to you soon, I gotta go.” She hung up without waiting for a response and stared at the marbled pattern on the countertop, her mind a swirling tornado of fear, anger, and doubt.

‘Pay attention.’

A week later, while Quinn enjoyed her ritual Saturday sleep in, Santana would be hearing those two words chanting in deafening white noise as she scrolls through Quinn’s text messages. She won’t start packing her car until she gets to the one that reads ‘Lunch was amazing, can’t wait until we can do it again!!!!’ from a contact labeled only Gld*.

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016 (present)_

Santana squeezed her eyes shut behind her sunglasses on the patio of the Starbucks, willing away the sting of tears. She didn’t need more reason than that text message. It clearly outlined for her how this was all going to play out, and she sure as _shit_ wouldn’t be around to watch it.

She thumbed the screen of her new phone, dialing the number she’d known by heart since eighth grade. Brittany’s scrunched up face—trying to look at her own tongue stuck out—appeared with the time ticking off seconds underneath.

“Hullo?” Brittany’s voice, even just saying hello, calmed some of the tumbling in her stomach immediately.

“Hey, Britts.” She said on a sigh.

“Did she call?”

“Not yet, and hopefully she won’t. S’why I got a different number.” Santana mumbled gruffly. She imagined Brittany was nodding in the silence that followed, the blonde was never very good with correcting nonverbal communication on the phone.

“The guys aren’t back yet?”

“Nope, I’m sitting at a Starbucks, had to get out. Just—just couldn’t do the silence, y’know?”

“I’ll be there this weekend, San. I have that audition tomorrow or I would’ve been there yesterday.” Brittany sounded sad and apologetic, like she had every time she’d mentioned the audition (this would be the fourth, if she were keeping count).

“Nah, Britt-Britt. I’m alright.” She edged her toe into some weeds growing at the edge of the concrete, scraping her nail and listening for the comfort of Brittany’s breathing. “Got me some coffee, now I've gotta start looking for a place." She scrunched her nose at the thought of her current 'living' arrangement. "I seriously can _not_ stay with Puck and Sam for any longer than is absolutely necessary."

If Brittany noticed the absence of any mocking nicknames for the boys, she didn't mention it. A sudden thought struck the blonde.

“Oh! Oh, San! After the zoo, I can help you pick a _great_ place to live, with lots of counters and the right kinda walls!” Santana felt a genuine smile break across her face at her oldest friend. Only Brittany could take a reference to adequate surfaces for fucking and make it sound like picking out Crayola paint and baby bunnies.

The girl always knew just what to say to get through Santana’s carefully constructed booby traps, and Santana could always decipher the odd connections Brittany made for things. They understood each other, and sometimes Santana wondered if that transcended their sexual chemistry and that’s why they were still tight, even without boning.

She wasn’t about all that psycho-babble bullshit, that was always more a Qui—well, it was never her thing; but even so, she couldn’t deny that her love for Brittany had only grown stronger over the time they hadn’t been sleeping together.

It was hard to believe it had been nearly three years already since she’d last had sex with her first partner.

— — — — — — — — — —

_October, 2013_

Santana adjusted her backpack on her shoulders with a grimace, finally leaving the library as fast as possible with at least nine thousand pounds of textbooks strapped to her back. It was already past eleven, she only got half her paper written; she was hungry, horny, and irritated that she couldn’t get a certain bitch-tastic blonde out of her thoughts.

She walked towards the deli on the corner of the block, checking her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed any texts. She shook her head at herself as she walked, tightening her jaw and stepping faster. It had been ten days since the last time they’d hooked up and Santana was feeling the lapse. She had other offers; of _course_ she could get some elsewhere, and she had. But it somehow didn’t fully scratch the itch. 

She made it to the deli and threw her heavy backpack down on a booth in the back, ordering a pastrami on rye and trying to figure out when she’d gotten so soft in regards to Lucy Quinn Fabray.

Santana was annoyed to find she couldn’t make her body stop craving Quinn’s touch. The chick kept, like, _appearing_ behind her eyelids. Moments from orgasm, totally into her fantasy of Alicia Keys moaning her name while laid out across a baby grand; all of sudden—Bam: it was Quinn’s husky voice, Quinn’s pale thighs surrounding her head, Quinn’s sharp pulling at her hair.

Letting that beautiful Romanian violinist pound away earlier this week, the friction and his feminine little whimpers with every thrust actually doing it for her; as soon as she closed her eyes—Bam: it was Quinn’s slender frame curled over her, Quinn’s soft blonde hair around her face, Quinn’s stormy greenish eyes (always the tell that she was turned on) staring into her own.

Santana couldn’t decide if she was more pissed that the blonde was hijacking her libido, or the fact that she would always come— _hard—_ immediately afterwards. A grumbly low 'meow' from her phone interrupted her pick-apart process of the unsettling response.

**Britt-Britt  
** _U wanna come ova 4 cuddles? Lv U!_

She sighed, dropping the sandwich to the paper spread out on the table. Brittany wanted to ‘cuddle,’ which meant Brittany wanted sex. Santana stared at a stray piece of pastrami fallen from the sandwich, trying to pin down exactly what emotion was outstanding from the swirl of response she was feeling.

Horny—yes, that one was easy. Brittany may not be great at school or remembering to pair her socks, but she knew the curves and crevices of Santana’s body like no one else. Santana figured she would always have an attraction to her first love, and she knew for a fact they were good in bed together. And yet...

She hated to admit to herself that disappointment was near the forefront. She felt like she'd been waiting for Quinn for _ever_. Long enough that the text from Brittany made her feel guilty for wishing it had been the other blonde. That realization highlighted another emotion popping out, but Santana didn’t want to acknowledge the feeling of obligation that came with the text. It seemed like it undermined her love.

Santana reminded herself that this was what she wanted when she broke up with Britt. She wanted the girl to be able to think of her, unprompted; to want (and more importantly, _choose_ ) only Santana, even when there were other options around. Now here was Brittany soliciting her attention unprompted, and the brunette would be damned if she ignored the request.

She balled up the remains of her sandwich and wrapper, pausing as her mind returned to Quinn again without her intention.

No. _No._

Fuck Quinn and her independence from this feeling. Fuck her not responding to this unwanted tie they'd been slowly knotting over the last few months. Brittany loved her—didn't make her chase, didn't make her beg, didn't make her feel weak.

She nodded to herself, decision made, then unlocked her phone and tapped out a text back to Brittany.

**You  
** _Lv ur ladykisses ;) B there n 15_

— — —

Santana's eyes fluttered closed with a gasp, her fingers tightening in the mess of blonde hair—the wrong shade—moving between her thighs. She groaned and lifted her hips sharply, Brittany's talented tongue flattening against her clit and lapping.

"Gonna come for me, San?" The blonde's voice was deeper than normal, rough with passion. Santana's eyes flew open at the question— _Brittany._

She was with Brittany, her best friend, her soulmate, the girl who took her virginity at fourteen before they even really knew what they were doing. She forced her gaze to Brittany's turbulent blue cat-eyes, bringing herself back into the moment and pushing Quinn's maddeningly beautiful face out of her mind.

Santana nodded, holding the eye contact while she pulled her lower lip between her teeth and slowly ground her body against Brittany's mouth.

"As long as— _fuck,_ just like that, B—as... don't stop..." She panted brokenly, hazy chocolate eyes drifting shut when Brittany pushed two fingers inside her again.

Santana pumped her hips against the penetration, whimpering in frustration with every arch. Her orgasm was just beyond her reach, her hands gripping Brittany's hair at the back and crown of her head, pressing the girl deeper. They'd been at this for almost an hour already, and Santana was sure she was going insane. She could feel it _right there_ , so very close to washing over her in a delicious delirious wave, and yet she still couldn't catch it.

Santana's expression pulled into a grimace as she growled, lifting her knees and digging her heels into Brittany's shoulder-blades. Her back arched and stayed bow-string tight, the whimpers escaping her throat turning to cries with every deep thrust.

Her eyes squeezed shut, Santana's brain repeating the same word in a mantra: _Almost, almost..._

_"Hey! You're crazy bitch, but ya fuck so good I'm on top of it! When I dream...I'm doin' you all night. Scratches all down ma'back, keep me right on..."_

As soon as it registered to Santana that the noise assaulting her in Brittany's quiet dorm room was Quinn's ringtone, her body clenched down on Brittany's fingers and a sharp cry ripped from her throat. She bucked violently, the blonde between her legs holding tight and riding it out.

The looped tone was in the middle of its third round by the time Santana's eyes had popped open again and she was stumbling naked to her backpack.

"Hello?" She panted breathlessly, her back to Brittany still in the bed.

"....... _Ew._ Nevermind. God, I should've—no. Just, nevermind." Quinn rambled angrily and Santana panicked for a moment.

"Oh, can it, Fabray." She snapped. "Like you don't enjoy a little recreational workout sometimes." She spotted her jeans on the floor and wedged the phone between her shoulder and cheek to start fumbling into them. “It’s after midnight. Your prince turn to a pumpkin so you’re callin’ Auntie ‘Tana?”

Where were her underwear? She spun in a circle, stopping short at the sight of Brittany cross-legged in the middle of the bed, her chin on her palm and Santana’s thong dangling from her outstretched hand. Santana smiled in thanks and Brittany gave her a fond, though slightly bittersweet, smile in return.

“Ugh, I just wanted—Where are you?” Quinn was in typical warm and sweet form, it seemed.

“I’m around the block from my place. Where are _you_?” Santana tugged her hoodie over her head, stuffing her thong and bra into the front pocket.

“I’m in my room.” Quinn breathed. “My—my roommate’s out for the weekend.” She sounded thin and a little hesitant, and Santana got the satisfying sense that Quinn _hated_ that she was calling, even as she did it anyway. “If you’re not already ‘booked,’ I could use an escort.” The blonde’s bite returned and Santana almost chuckled out loud.

“I might be able to pencil you in, provided you can offer something better than what I’ve already got scheduled.” Santana’s tone had dropped to smooth silk, her eyes steady on Brittany’s, the blonde giving her a half-smirk with a scrunch of her nose. “If you can afford it, that is.”

 _“Tch_ , you’re such a slut, Santana.” Quinn hissed. “So you’ll be here, or not?” __

“You want me to drive to New Haven?” Santana barked incredulously. “For a booty call, Q, really?”

“Oh my God, Santana. Nevermind. You have a car, I just thought—forget it.” Quinn cut off her own reply. “It doesn’t matter. Have a great night doing... whoever you’re doing.”

“Wait!” Santana’s voice sounded irritatingly desperate to her own ears and she started pacing aimlessly around the room. “Shit, woman. Unbunch your Hanes-Her-Ways. Just gimmie a lil’ while to get there, a’right?” She grumbled. “It’s not like it’s two hours away or anything. _Fuck_.” Quinn scoffed into the phone for an answer.

“Look, whatever. No one’s begging; if you don’t wanna come, don’t come.” The blonde’s tone was all badly faked disinterest.

“Oh, I’ll come, Q.” Santana purred. “And you will, too.” She waited for a beat, enjoying the barely audible hitch in Quinn’s breathing over the line. “And you know it, that’s why you called me. Don’t fall asleep before I get there.” She had a self-satisfied smile as she disconnected the call, giggling to herself— _Got her_ —as she tucked the phone into the front pocket of her bag and turned around.

Brittany. Fuck.

Brittany sat in the same spot on her bed, watching Santana with a small smile and eerily calm ice blue eyes. She sighed and held a hand out to Santana in beckoning. The brunette dropped her head and walked over to the bed, feeling ten thousand swirling emotions that all drained into a flush of guilt. Santana took her hand and fell to the bed, curling into a tight hug with the other girl.

“Ah luff oo.” The words escaped from the flesh of Brittany’s neck, Santana pulling back to press a proper kiss. “I hope you know how much.” She felt the blonde’s nod, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood and sex all around her.

“You should wear your Rachel clothes.” Brittany’s voice was conversational and even, her fingers dragging lazily through long dark hair. Santana was startled by the non-sequitur, Brittany _knew_... She had been the first to point out the ‘hungry eyes’ Quinn always had for Rachel.

Santana pulled back abruptly at the words, staring at Brittany with a look of wounded shock. She shook her head slowly in confusion, her brows pulling into a deeper frown.

“Wha—? B...” Brittany blinked at her steadily, bringing her hand back up to run her finger down Santana’s nose and over her lips.

“Trust me, Quinn'll love it. I know you still have them at your room. It’ll be _so hot_.” Brittany nodded with a smile and kissed Santana’s nose. “Go.”

Santana sighed, staring into Brittany’s eyes for long seconds, searching for any hurt, any anger, any _claim_. She brought her hand up to Brittany’s cheek with a sad smile, stroking her thumb over the soft skin and kissing the girl sweetly.

“You’re the unicorn, Britts. One of a kind.”

— — —

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Quinn stood in her pajamas in the doorway, her jaw on the floor right in front of her fuzzy slippers. For a brief moment, Santana couldn’t hide her smirk at the reaction, but she managed to school her features back into wide-eyed innocence and batted heavy eyelashes at the blonde. She was full in-character and she could see the shift in the girl’s darkening gaze.

Pupils blown and her breath turning shallow, Quinn greedily took in Santana’s attire; from the tight burgundy knit sweater with a white unicorn silhouette, over the obscenely short black tweed skirt, and down black stockings to brightly buckled Mary-Janes. A strangled sort of grunt was the only warning she gave before fisting the front of Santana’s sweater and yanking the other girl into her room.

Santana immediately smelled the alcohol on the blonde’s breath—whiskey, if she wasn’t mistaken—before her thoughts short circuited as Quinn shoved her back against the door and attacked her mouth, hands gripping and pulling at the knit fabric covering her sides.

Well then.

Santana wasn’t entirely sure what possessed her to take Brittany’s unsettling bit of fashion advice and go for it, but if she were honest with herself, part of it was the snapshot of perfect shock on Quinn’s face that she would keep in her memory forever.

Okay, so maybe a tiny part of her was a little disgruntled that she came when she was called (literally _and_ figuratively). And yeah, maybe she was even more pissed at herself that it was Quinn she was here with, and Brittany she’d left back in New York.

Quinn seemed like the natural and obvious target for the self-irritation tightening her jaw, and Santana figured a little poking at Quinn’s weak spot for badly dressed midget porn would only inspire some fire. She had expected some venom, some insults, and some dirty angry sex.

She had not expected this... this wild!Quinn rabid beast that was currently sucking hard on her tongue while roughly shoving the heavy material of her skirt up her thighs. Santana recovered from her shock rather quickly, burying her hands in Quinn’s short hair and dragging her bottom teeth along a sharp jawline to hiss in the other girl’s ear.

“Ohhh, Miss Quinnocence likes Berry clothes, does she?”

Quinn grunted as she yanked the tights halfway to mid-thigh, just enough to shove her hand underneath. Her elbow knocked against the door beside Santana’s head as she clamped her hand over the brunette’s mouth and leaned in.

“Shutupshutup _shutup_!” Quinn growled deeply, her fingers sliding into the slick heat in Santana's panties. “I don’t want to hear any names, any words, any _any_ thing that is not ‘fuck, god, yes,’ or ‘more.’” Quinn emphasized her words with harsh flicks over the girl's clit, Santana's ass thumping against the door with each rub. “Do you understand me?” She shoved two fingers deep inside at the low question.

A guttural groan tore from from the brunette's chest, her fingers winding tightly in Quinn's hair as she licked at the palm pressed to her mouth. She fought to keep her eyes open while one long tan leg lifted to wrap around Quinn's hips, Santana’s heel digging into the blonde's perfectly round ass. She wound her arms up and around Quinn’s back to curl her hands over narrow shoulders, pressing her fingers in to feel the muscles flex and roll under her grip.

She may not have been expecting this response, but she’d definitely take it.

Santana watched Quinn grit her teeth, dark green eyes half-lidded as she put her hips behind each thrust and ground the heel of her hand against Santana’s clit. The brunette’s eyes rolled back at the sensation and she used her leg for leverage to meet each push, slamming their bodies together.

Quinn finally peeled her hand away from slack lips when she felt Santana’s breathing start to labor.

“Look at you, Santana.” The voice was rough and vibrated through the brunette, prompting her eyes to flutter open and meet Quinn’s commanding gaze. “Rutting against me, whining, letting your body beg me to keep fucking you...” Her free hand slid under the sweater, pushing it up to expose tight abs, a grunt of disapproval rumbling out when it snagged and hung on Santana’s breasts.

“Off.” She barked, tugging at the material. 

“You want it off, take it off.” Santana purred, tilting her head back against the door with her eyes barely open and a challenging grin on her lips. She raised her arms over her head and arched an eyebrow, still shifting her hips and flexing her thigh to continue fucking herself slowly on Quinn’s stilling fingers.

They stared at each other for long moments, their panting breaths the only sound in the room before Quinn snorted a half chuckle. She painstakingly slid her fingers from the tight warmth they were surrounded in, an involuntary exhalation leaving Santana with them. Santana dropped her leg to the floor and the blonde brought her hands up to remove the sweater from her body, dragging her nails over the skin in her path.

When Santana stood before her looking completely debauched in a thin white camisole top with no bra and the disheveled skirt with stockings askew, Quinn let a devilish smile form on her lips.

Santana wasn’t sure if she was more nervous or turned on at the expression.

One dark brow arched and the spell was broken; Quinn dropped the sweater to the floor between their feet and spun on her heel, walking away to stand by the bed with her back to Santana. They stood in silence on opposite sides of the room for a few beats, Santana waiting to see if Quinn would speak or do something other than stand there.

“Alri—” Santana started to say, taking a step towards Quinn.

“Shut up. C’mere.” Santana’s jaw snapped shut and she told herself she was only doing as she was told because orgasms. Really powerful, fantastically good orgasms. She stepped confidently over to stand next to Quinn, unwilling to give in to this submissive role Quinn was trying to put her in without at least a little challenge.

“You don’t ha—” She started again, her words cut off when Quinn grabbed the back of her neck and pushed her down over the side of the bed, immediately working the tights down her thighs.

“I’m pretty sure... I told you the four words... you’re... allowed... to say.” Quinn spoke through clenched teeth as she dragged at the thin fabric, leaving the Mary-Janes alone and the tights bunched at Santana’s ankles. She pushed the skirt up over a tan firm ass, winding the string of Santana's thong around her finger and pulling it tight against swollen flesh.

Quinn bit into the muscled curve where cheek met the top of thigh and worked the thong back and forth with her grip on the string. Her eyes squeezed closed as she felt Santana bucking and grinding into the friction, muffled groans floating down from the blanket.

“ _Fuck_ , Quinn...” She gasped, her hands twisting into the bedding underneath her. She heard a throaty chuckle from behind just before she was crying out as three fingers roughly entered her and twisted.

“I guess that’s okay, you can say my name, too.. I like the way you scream it.” Quinn hissed as she stretched out over her back, one hand supporting herself beside Santana’s head while the other drove into the girl. Santana could feel the blonde let her weight rest, her now freed hand sliding to Santana’s side and trying to work underneath her. Santana lifted up on her elbows to help make room, moaning as her back curved to keep her ass raised and pressing back into Quinn’s thrusts.

She leaned on one arm and reached over with the other to grab Quinn’s hand, dragging it up to cover and squeeze her breast through the thin material of the camisole.

“Please, Q.. yesss...” She didn’t care at this point if she was begging. The animal Quinn was indulging was fucking amazing and she’d analyze later exactly what level of sick it made her to enjoy this entire scenario—all implications accounted for—as much as she was.

She could feel Quinn working her hips, forcefully fucking with her whole body while her other hand twisted the nipple pebbled at her palm. Santana actually screamed when Quinn sank her teeth into her shoulder and ripped at the spaghetti straps of the cami, feeling it stretch and snap before her breasts tumbled out onto the fabric of Quinn’s sheets.

Santana’s brain couldn’t fully process what was happening and she was running on pure response. Quinn had never manhandled her like this before, had never been so forceful and _possessive_. Even while the thought was firing, the blonde reached up to paw and squeeze, rolling peaked flesh between her fingertips before both of her hands quickly disappeared.

Santana whined pitifully when she was suddenly empty, her body clenching on nothing as she whipped her head around to see what the fuck. She caught Quinn’s feral gaze over her shoulder as it leveled with her ass, the blonde’s fingers tearing apart the strings of the thong on either hip and letting the scraps fall against the bed. A shiver skittered down the brunette’s spine before her vision vibrated dizzyingly when Quinn dipped out of view, her tongue replacing her fingers.

“ _Fuuuuuuuck_!” Santana wailed, her forehead dropping back to the blanket as her hips worked against the bed and back, grinding into the blonde’s face. Hands balled into fists, panting little sharp whimpers slipped out of her with every plunge.

She noted somewhere in the haze of lust that this encounter was going to be over for her embarrassingly fast. As if reading her mind—though San wasn't sure she if she had actually moaned the thought out loud—Quinn angled her neck to flick the tip of her tongue rapidly against Santana's clit, her hand coming back to replace her tongue with slender fingers again.

Santana bit down on the comforter at her cheek to stop the babbling begging she could feel bubbling up (she still had _some_ pride), but her scream moments later still filtered through. Her vision blanked and all she could hear was the rushing blood in her ears as she spasmed and jerked, riding out the intense rush with only a few residual murmurs of the blonde's name tumbling out.

She vaguely recognized the soft moan from somewhere behind her in her stupor, dark eyes snapping open when she felt sharp nails digging into the flesh of her left ass cheek.

Santana whipped around to see Quinn on her knees at the edge of the bed, one hand falling away from Santana's ass as the brunette rolled over, the other buried under the waistband of her own pajama bottoms.

Quinn's eyes were still closed with a dreamy smile on her face when Santana leaned down and grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from herself and up to her own mouth.

"You bitch." She whispered softly, staring into Quinn's surprised expression. "That," San sucked a glistening finger slowly into her mouth and held eye contact while thoroughly cleaning any taste away. "...should've been mine." She licked the remaining fingers clean before tugging gently on the hand she still held.

"C'mere." She scooted back on the bed to make room, noting that now Quinn wouldn't meet her eyes. They settled into the twin size together, Santana pressing tightly to Quinn's tense back and tentatively wrapping an arm around her waist.

"So.” She whispered into blonde hair. “That was kinda—”

“I... can we just go to sleep?” Quinn cut her off with the quiet question, her tone cool and unreadable. San raised her head to peer over the other girl’s shoulder, opening her mouth to answer when Quinn continued. “I don’t want to _share_ , or bitch back and forth, I—I don’t even know what just...” She swallowed loud enough for Santana to hear it in the quiet room. “I just want to sleep, okay?”

Santana nodded silently against Quinn’s shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the soft skin at her lips before laying her head down and tightening her arm around the stiff body pressed to her own. She held Quinn as the tension slowly ebbed away with sleep, finally falling herself when the light in the room turned blue with early dawn.

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016_

Santana noted with wry 20/20 hindsight that the whole ‘Quinn goes crazy to fuck not-quite-Rachel’ thing might’ve been a bit of a red flag on their relationship, right from the start. If she were to truly pick apart that night, she would find that she knew _then_ , but had convinced herself she and Quinn were doing the same thing—biding time until who they wanted came around.

A harsh snort escaped her when she realized that it was kind of true, it was only the ‘who’ of who she wanted that had changed somewhere in the mess.

“Oh-okay, we don’t _have_ to go to the zoo first, if you don’t want to...” Brittany’s voice was subdued, responding to Santana’s scoff. The brunette shook her head to shake the lingering memories, blinking hard and dragging herself back into the present, back to her original ‘who’ on the phone.

“Nah, Britts, the zoo first is fine with me.” Santana murmured.

She had to start thinking of her future and not let everything lead back to moments in her history with Quinn. They were over, she had moved out, Brittany was going to be there this weekend to help her find a new place and she just needed to put her head down to finish this last semester, then she could move on. A sudden realization occurred to her.

“You know....” She started and Brittany waited, knowing the tone and that more was coming as it formed on the brunette’s tongue. “I only need a six-month lease.” Santana let the words hang on the line for a beat, seeing if Brittany would make the same jump she was toying with.

“That’s _right_! I forgot you took the three-year basketball thing, right? So when can you graduate?” Santana beamed a bright smile at the blonde’s mix-up, getting to her feet and walking off the patio of the Starbucks.

“It’s an **_em_** -bee-ay, Britts. And August, officially. My mom will kill me if I don’t walk, but I’m a free bitch in just about six months.” She felt some of the dread from the past week unknot slightly just from saying the words out loud.

“So whatcha think, Britt-Britt? Think maybe after you help me find a place here... you can help me find a place in L.A.?”

Santana had to pull the phone away at the squeal the other girl let loose, grimacing as the pitch vibrated her eardrum.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” She grinned.

“YES! Yesyesyesyes! Oh San, I’m so excited!”

“I can’t wait til you’re here, B. Only a few more days.” Santana tilted her head back and closed her eyes, soaking some sunshine on her face while she waited for the crosswalk light. “I needs my Britt-Britt snuggles. It’s been since Christmas.”

— — — — — — — — — —

_December, 2015_

“No, Brittany, I’m saying she _really_ just doesn’t believe me.” Santana curled bare feet underneath herself on Brittany’s bed, tracing her fingertip over a nail polish stain on the sheet. She picked at it, remembering the night sophomore year when Brittany had tackled her while she was painting her toenails, spilling the bright blue lacquer and permanently staining the cotton.

Brittany blinked at her for a moment from the floor by the bed, a mess of random photographs and different colored notes surrounding her in a pile. She looked back to the stack of pictures in her hands, shuffling through and plucking one out of the stack to hold out in offer.

“Do you still love her?” She asked evenly, leaning back once Santana had taken the photo from her and flipping through the rest of the stack in her hand without looking up.

Santana looked at the glossy 4x6 snapshot she held and smiled despite her sour mood. It was a capture in the choir room, from the day near the end of junior year when Puck had showed up for glee with a stack of pies (god only knew where from) and a too-innocent grin. The whole club had dug in and only managed to finish four between them all, so the rest had become projectiles—naturally.

She wasn’t sure who took the pic since Brittany could be seen to the left of the scene in mid-toss, her arm arched and semi-blurred, a look of determination on her face. Rachel cowered directly in front of the blonde with her eyes clenched shut in fearful anticipation, the obvious intended victim. Quinn was just behind her in the lower right corner of the frame, caught in a genuine laugh with her jaw wide open and face scrunched adorably, whipped cream up to her elbows and down the bridge of her nose.

Santana sighed when she spotted herself just above the blonde in the upper right of the picture, seated in the rafters with Tina and Mike making out to the left of her (both covered in whipped cream and random cookie bits) and her eyeline fixed on Quinn with a charmed half-grin on her face.

She dropped the picture off the side of the bed beside Brittany, watching as it fluttered down to rest on the pile before picking again at the nail polish.

“Of _course_ I do.” She muttered resentfully, kicking her feet out to cross them at the ankles and folding her arms over her chest. “I wish I didn’t, have you _met_ Quinn?” Brittany’s brow furrowed and she looked up to Santana questioningly. “She’s a bitch.” Santana said flatly in explanation. “A bitch that gets a wiggle in her ass and treats me like shit every time she’s within sniffing distance of Berry’s bush.”

Her voice was quiet and scornful, Brittany the only person on earth (including—or maybe _especially_ —Quinn) that San trusted enough to be as vulnerable as the subject made her feel. She tapped one foot against the other and watched the motion, wondering what Quinn was doing right that moment. Was she as twisted up about all this?

"If you love her, you have to tell her so." Brittany stated simply, uncapping a glue stick and rubbing it over the back of the pie-fight picture. Santana scoffed, like it was really that easy.

"I _have_ told her, Britts." Her sigh was heavy and world-weary, the defeat she was feeling coloring her tone. "She just doesn't care."

"Okay, you 'told' her, but did you tell her in Quinn words?"

Bright blue eyes rolled like it was the most obvious thing in the world and Santana wondered (somewhere in her funk) if she would ever stop being surprised sometimes by the things Brittany said.

"Quinn's words for love are quieter, San, and they're kinda mean." The blonde smoothed her fingers over the photo, securing it to the scrapbook page in front of her, and looked up thoughtfully. "I guess they're not really words... she kinda just stares, then gets mad if you don't get it."

Brittany watched Santana for a moment, the brunette frowning as she thought over the various shades of Quinn's expressive eyes. Gold with shimmery flecks meant she was angry or excited, a dark sort of almost brown was sad or tired, forest green with lines of turquoise when she was aroused; Santana could list the mood-ring color key. But Brittany wasn't wrong, San was at a loss to name a time when Quinn just _said_ what she was thinking or feeling.

The blonde reached for a marker from the pile on the desk behind her, freezing mid-stretch to twist back around and pin Santana with a frightened gape.

"She's not mad at _me_ , is she? You and me haven’t had any kind of sex since that one night you thought I was her...” She slumped back down, a crease of concern and sadness forming on her brow. Santana cringed involuntarily in response, looking away.

“I didn’t think you were her, Brittany.” She said apologetically, her voice low.

“Oh, it’s okay, San. I know I’ve got a room in your heart. I decorated it already!” Santana smiled just slightly, shaking her head in fondness for her friend and a touch of confusion. “You and me are like those birds... albanians? No. What were they called?”

“Penguins?” Santana offered.

“No... the big white ones, alabasters?”

“Swans?”

“Nuh-uh.” She stared at the purple marker in her hand in concentration, holding it up in triumph with an ' _oh!'_ a moment later. "Albatross! That’s it. They pick a mate and make a home nest, and then go fly over, like, the whole ocean, miles and miles away...” Brittany looked up quickly, making sure Santana was still listening. “But then they always come back to each other.”

Santana grinned, her dark eyes twinkling at Brittany with pure devotion as the girl leaned over to draw designs around the photo on the scrapbook page.

"But you and Quinn are like eagles.” Brittany didn’t look up, speaking to the marker and the colored paper. “Y’know the ones that, like, mate for life, but they fall at the ground really fast whenever they do it, and if they don’t come fast enough, they kill each other?" Santana could only blink in response, waiting for the punchline to the association.

"Not on purpose, but they die anyways. They just don’t wanna let go, even if it kills them to love each other." Brittany looked up and caught dark eyes, staring for a moment while she judged if Santana was getting it. "You and Quinn are super hot together, though," she said after a beat, looking away and back to the paper. “So you should be okay."

Santana watched in sheer fascination as a look of bewildered horror crawled over Brittany's features.

"She thinks you’re hot, too, right? Puck said she was frozen or something...” Blonde brows knit together in thought. “But you’re so hot you melt things, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, ice..." She trailed off on her list and Santana smirked, letting her eyes fall closed with a chuckle.

"Yeah, B. She knows I’m hot."

Brittany sighed, climbing up on the bed next to Santana and snuggling into a full-body hug.

"Good. I know you're good at it, but I've only made out with Quinn before so I didn't know about her." She nuzzled her face deeper into the brunette's neck, throwing one long leg over Santana's. "Hey, San?" She murmured quietly, her fingers tracing lines across the exposed tan skin between tank-top and boy shorts.

Santana _hmm_ 'd in response, her arm tightening around the lithe body against her own as she pressed a kiss to Brittany's temple.

"D'you think Quinn would let us have a sleepover when I'm there next week?" She whispered the question, sounding hopeful and hesitant at the same time, and Santana sighed heavily.

"I...uhm, I dunno 'bout that one, Britts." Santana whispered back, her hand coming up to stroke through blonde hair. "Quinn's not—"

"You said she isn't mad at me!" Brittany jerked back from the embrace to stare accusingly, her expression wounded. Before the recent fight had erupted between Quinn and Santana, the plan had been for Brittany to stay with them during her visit.

"She's not mad at you!" Santana replied earnestly. "She's mad at _me_ ," She looked away quickly, Brittany watching as Santana's features shifted in a quick flash of pain, brown eyes fixed to a spot on the ceiling and slowly filling with tears.

"She's mad at me for not... for not..." Santana's voice cracked on the words, impossibly thick eyelashes glittering against her cheek as her eyes fell closed. She couldn’t make herself say the name. They both knew what Quinn was upset about.

"Shh, baby... c'mere." Brittany rolled to her back and pulled Santana into her chest, murmuring soft words of comfort and petting soothingly through her hair.

— — —

The next evening, not far beyond the Pennsylvania state line, Puck was driving them back to New York from their Christmas break when Brittany called. Santana—thinking Quinn was asleep and wouldn’t know she was jeopardizing their tentative peace so soon after forging it—answered the call.

“I miss you, too, Brittany. You know I do.” The brunette’s voice was warm, her body turned towards the window to not wake up her girlfriend asleep against the other door.

“How long until I get to see you again?” Brittany whined on her end of the line. They’d hugged goodbye less than six hours before at the Pierce residence, just before Santana had pulled out of the driveway to go pick up Puck from his mom’s house around the corner.

“Three days.” The brunette sighed the words, it wasn’t that long. As long as she and Quinn could keep up the truce they seemed to have been building in the last couple hours, she wouldn’t be counting the minutes.

“Counting today?”

“Yeah, tonight, tomorrow, and the next day and then you’ll be flying in.” Brittany was going to spend New Year’s with her friends in New York before flying back to L.A. There were several parties she was already committed to attend and Santana had made sure to get her quality time in while they were in Lima for Christmas, knowing there wouldn’t be the chance once they returned home.

“It’ll be you and not Puck coming to pick me up, right?”

“Yep, me and Quinn.” Santana paused, her eyes darting to Quinn momentarily when the girl shifted in her seat.

“Oh, Quinn!” Brittany exclaimed, suddenly remembering what she wanted to ask Santana, before she’d gotten sad that the brunette was gone and decided to call her. “Did you tell her you love her, like we talked about?”

“Nah, we’re not like that, Britts. She knows.” Santana had turned back towards the window to continue speaking quietly.

“Are you sure?” Brittany wasn’t convinced. “Quinn words are hard, ‘cause people think you’re really being mean, and not just trying—”

“I promise.”

“I _knew_ she was mad at me.”

“No, B, she’s not.” Santana realized that trying to have this conversation right now—convincing the other girl that everything was okay with Quinn—without raising her voice and still managing to keep up with Brittany’s non sequiturs, was not going to work.

“Maybe she thinks we’re _cuddling_ because we sleep together.” The blonde’s voice dropped to a conspiratory whisper. “Did you tell her there’s no sex?”

“I did, I told her. Hey, I’m starting to lose you, Brittany.” Sam turned around in the seat in front of her and wagged his finger with an exaggerated look of disapproval. She silently flipped him off.

“No, you’re not. I’m right here!” Santana rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. She could tell from the sound of her voice that the blonde had pulled the phone back and yelled into it to help Santana find her.

“No, I mean the phone service, it’s dropping out ‘cause we’re in backwoods fucking nowhere.” Sam chuckled and shook his head in the front seat—without turning around this time—and she reached up to flick his ear. She grinned in evil satisfaction when he jumped and hissed, covering his ear in pain.

“Are you guys lost? The woods don’t have roads...”

“No, there’s ro--Nevermind, we’re fine, B, I promise. Look, I’ll call you when I get home, ‘kay?”

“Alright, San.” Brittany was still worried about her friends driving around a place where they didn’t even have roads, but was used to trusting Santana. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” When Santana hung up and turned to find Quinn glaring at her, she was genuinely confused.

When Quinn proceeded to jump to the same old tired conclusion and turn the cold shoulder so easily back on—yet again, so soon—she was suddenly very tired.

By the time they reached New York to drop off Puck and Sam, Santana felt like something had broken within her. She just didn’t have the energy to have their habitual fight again, and told Quinn as much before their silent drive home.

The last thought before Santana closed her eyes to sleep, her back to Quinn and choking on the tension saturating the sheets between them, was that it was three thousand three hundred and fifty six minutes until she would see Brittany again.

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016_

She and Brittany would always have that bond, she would die protecting it. Santana knew without a doubt that even if they never had sex again, she would never go longer than a week without talking to the blonde, and she would never go longer than a couple months without seeing her. Transcendent, or something, whatever.

Santana listened to Brittany chatter for the rest of the walk back to Puck and Sam's, the randomness of the girl's conversation a perfect distraction from the hollowness in her chest. She wasn’t sure if her own mind was trying to sell her on the decision she’d made—or if she was just finally seeing clearly—but every memory circled back to Quinn screwing her over somehow for Rachel.

No, not for Rachel. For the _chance_ at the _idea_ of Rachel. It was insulting, in hindsight, and made her kind of sick with herself.

When she reached the apartment she got off the phone, promising Brittany she’d call before she went to bed. Once Santana had settled in on the couch, an old Maury rerun playing on the television and the parrot blissfully quiet for the most part, her thoughts drifted to her future with a little less guilt than before.

L.A. She was confident she would be able to find work, she was Santana fucking Lopez, it was a non-issue. She also knew there would be plenty of beautiful people around if Brittany had anything to do with it. Her thoughts rolled carefully over the idea of being with someone that wasn’t Quinn.

There would be plenty of beautiful Brittany around, too.

Santana's brow creased and she brought her hand up to chew on her thumbnail, Maury reading paternity test results in the background while she asked herself if she wanted to go back there with her oldest friend. There was no denying they were soulmates; they loved each other completely, and they were good to—and for—each other.

She knew they weren't the same people they'd been four years ago when they broke up just after graduation. Well, when she had broken up with Brittany, anyway. She scoffed in self-deprecation, maybe she _was_ still the same person. She still seemed to be pulling the same shit—running away before the person she loved could hurt her the way she feared they would.

Santana was not so self-unaware as to miss the fact that when she went about trying on someone other than Brittany, not only was the first person she noticed someone close and familiar, it also was someone pretty much Brittany's opposite.

She allowed herself a brief smirk as she pictured both blondes; well, they were at least _emotionally_ different. Physically, she seemed to have a type: leggy and blonde. Rachel's knee-high clad legs under a trademark short skirt flashed through her mind unbidden, and her smile faltered. Maybe just leggy.

She shook her head to clear the image (and its associated tingle, because—just, _no)_ and pictured Quinn in her bikini sprawled across the lounge chair in Santana's backyard. She still remembered the exact afternoon that she decided Quinn could be a legitimate sexual option. It had been the summer after graduation, right after Santana had officially broken up with Brittany, and a full year before the first time she and Quinn would hook up.

— — — — — — — — — —

_June, 2012_

Santana heard the heavy wooden gate of her backyard slam moments before Quinn appeared on the stone path that led around to the pool. The brunette was already stretched out across a lounge chair on her stomach, barely there bikini untied and bunched loose at her sides, a few empty Corona bottles lined up on the concrete beside her. She raised her head and nodded in greeting.

"Drinks are in the cooler over there," she pointed without moving her hands from where her arms were crossed above her head. "And towels are in the laundry room closet." Santana laid her head back down to the chair. "Get yo’ tan on, bitch.. you pasty!"

The blonde rolled her eyes and walked over to the lounge chair next to Santana's, dropping her tote and slipping her feet out of her sandals.

"Where's Brittany?" She inquired conversationally, spreading her towel over the chair and settling down on it. A grunt sounded from the mess of hair face down in the seat next to her. Quinn arched an eyebrow and reached over to poke a tan shoulder. "Hey..."

A muffled _hmm_ was her reply.

"I asked you where's Brittany?"

"Get a drink and shut _up_ , Quinn, seriously?" Santana lifted just enough to snap at Quinn, shaking her head and muttering under her breath as she settled it back down. Quinn blinked owlishly for a moment before closing her mouth and getting up to walk over to the cooler.

When the blonde walked away, Santana released the breath she was holding, swallowing hard and reminding herself that it was her decision to break up.

She'd already caught Britt's eye wandering—even just at orientation—and she'd been unsettled by it. If she was honest with herself, Brittany's... _Brittany-ness—_ her gullible and naive nature, her sexual fluidity—terrified her.

The girl legitimately believed that Irish Finn was a leprechaun, her cat smoked cigarettes, and that it wasn't cheating if her partner was a different gender. Santana had already had to 'rescue' Brittany from making out with some random warbler wannabe when they were in New York for orientation weekend. Brittany had believed she was dreaming (Santana was still pretty sure the idea came from the skeeze sucking on her face), therefore nothing she did 'counted.'

The encounter brought a crushing ton of bricks realization down on Santana. She couldn't always be there for those situations—despite her painstaking efforts to get them into nearby schools—and she knew without a doubt there would be more of them. She was supposed to just have faith in the strength of their love and trust that, no matter what random Britt fucked, the blonde was ultimately hers. 

Yeah, _no_. She needed to finish college, not get arrested for assault every fucking weekend.

Santana came to the harsh conclusion that her only option was to put the brakes on Brittana, shattering her own heart before the blonde could unwittingly destroy them both. She could clearly visualize the situation ending up with her hating Brittany, and the thought was overwhelmingly horrifying enough to give her gumption.

Once she’d assured Brittany she wasn’t breaking up with her because she didn’t love her—and that yes, they could still _cuddle_ —the blonde had seemed dishearteningly unphased by the entire conversation. Santana told herself the blonde was okay with it because they were still having sex, not because she just wasn’t concerned. Brittany was her soulmate, she was sure of it. They would always have later, right?

She was shaken from her thoughts just before another panic could set in when Quinn returned to the chair beside her, cracking the cap off another Corona with a hiss and holding it out.

"You wanna take this and tell me what happened now, or should I wait for your bitch to wear off a little more?" Quinn asked dryly.

Santana made a show of huffing irritably while pulling herself to a sitting position, her bikini top falling away to leave her chest uncovered. She smirked at Quinn's flush and quickly averted gaze—’ _I'm sexy and I know it_ ' humming through her brain—before settling cross-legged facing the other girl, who still wouldn’t look up from her own lap.

The brunette rolled her eyes and pulled her towel up to drape over her shoulders and protect Quinn’s ‘delicate sensibilities’ or whatever. She finally took the beer and tipped it up, taking a long draw while Quinn cleared her throat and sipped on her own with a grimace.

"I broke up with her." Santana said blankly. Quinn gaped, eyes wide, moving her hand in a circular 'go on' motion when Santana didn't offer anything more.

"....and?" The blonde asked, somewhat incredulous.

"And what, Quinn? _I broke up with her_. That's why she's not here." Santana snapped.

"Santana." Quinn deadpanned. The brunette shook her head silently, burying her fingers in the hair at her temples and propping her elbows on her knees. She stared unblinking at the hot concrete, the silence stretching for a few beats while she tried to find the words.

"I can't...." She paused, eyes squeezing closed as she wavered in how much to convey of what she was feeling, her other hand bringing the beer up to her lips for a deep draw. "You _know_ Brittany, Q." She finally whispered after she swallowed, the uncharacteristic vulnerability making the blonde visibly uneasy.

Quinn scoffed.

"Yeah, I _do_ know Brittany, and I know you, too. That’s why I’m asking: what _happened_?" Quinn surprised them both by reaching her hand out to lay on Santana's knee in an awkward gesture of comfort. "It's only been a few weeks since graduation."

Santana barked a bitter laugh and leaned back in her chair, head tilting back to stare at the bright summer sky.

"Yeah, and y'know what happened right after graduation? Orientation." She ran a hand through her long hair, then yanked it slightly in frustration and rolled her eyes at her own emotionality. Blonde brows drew together in confusion.

"But, you guys are only, like, five minutes apart, right? I don't understand, San..."

"Augh, y'know, did it occur anywhere in your bleached blonde head that maybe I just want the chance at some strange?" Santana huffed, abruptly rising from her seat and walking to the edge of the pool without bothering to pick up her top. "I mean, seriously, Q, do you even realize how many bitches are in New York?" She turned around and dropped the towel to the ground, putting her hands on her hips and raising her eyebrows at Quinn before continuing without waiting for a reply.

"Girls fresh into college and just begging for their first real fuck, someone who can blow away the memory of all the bullshit two-pump-chumps that sweated over them in high school." A smirk spread over full lips as Santana spread her arms wide in presentation.

"Santana Lopez, at your service!" She stepped backwards off the edge of the pool, dropping under the surface briefly before popping back up to stand in water lapping at her breasts. Her dark gaze was trained on Quinn's features while she leaned over to squeeze the excess moisture from her long hair, the blonde battling another blush at the slick skin on display.

Santana grinned to herself as Quinn schooled her expression back to the dubious look she'd been maintaining through most of the bravado-laced speech.

".....right. The girl you've been in love with since eighth grade, the one you went through hell to be with; that one, you mean?" She pointed at Santana with a mocking tone. "That's the one you want me to believe you broke up with for—how did you put it?—'some strange?'" Quinn said the words disdainfully with a wrinkled nose, like they’d actually left a sour taste on her tongue.

Dark eyes rolled as Santana pulled herself up on the hot concrete edge of the pool; why couldn’t Quinn just let this go? She walked dripping over to the blonde and stood at the foot of the lounge chair, the sun behind her casting the shadow of her profile on Quinn’s flat stomach.

Maybe it was the fact that she was walking around topless, maybe it was the couple beers she’d already put away, or maybe it was the summer sun sinking into her blood; either way, there were ideas forming unbidden at the sight. Ideas like that pale stretch of skin looked like it would be so soft, and was probably sweet smelling, maybe with a salty taste (especially with the heat), and being that close to...

Santana swallowed heavily, thankful for the sun at her back making her face a dark shadow to Quinn. _Fuck_ , she needed to get laid. By the time the blonde drew her hand up to block the glare—brows arching over the top of her sunglasses at the other girl in silent question—Santana had cooled her wandering gaze.

She suddenly grinned mischievously and leaned over the sun-warmed body reclined below, vigorously shaking her head and sprinkling cold water everywhere. Her laugh was genuine and hearty when Quinn screeched and tried to cover herself.

“You look hot.” Santana curled one corner of her mouth up in a half-grin, letting the double entendre hang between them as she snagged her top and wrapped it around herself. She dropped down to sit on the edge of Quinn’s chair, ass pressing up against the hot skin of Quinn’s side while her hands held the string of her bikini together in the back.

“Tie this for me.”

Quinn shifted to sit up and silently take the strings, and Santana was unsure if the tremble she felt in the transfer was really there or something she’d imagined. She looked back over her shoulder in an attempt to catch the blonde’s gaze, but the other girl subtly adjusted to stay out of eyeline.

The knot was tied sharply, the hair on the back of Santana’s arms and neck standing up in awareness of this new tension between them. She heard a shaky deep breath drawn in behind her and got to her feet with a smug smile. She couldn’t... she’d never considered Quinn with any seriousness before, but it was looking like it would be almost too easy.

Good Lord, would it be _messy_ , though.

Santana sauntered over to the cooler—all swinging hips in confident swagger—and withdrew another bottle from the ice, holding it up in question to her still silent friend with a grin.

“You good? ‘Nother?” She tilted the bottle in alternating directions in the air, waiting for a response. Quinn blinked once, then several times rapidly, opening her mouth to speak before closing it again and just nodding instead. The blonde drained the remaining third of the bottle in her hand, setting it down on the cocktail table between the chairs with a ‘clank’ and taking a deep breath in.

Santana walked back and handed off the beer before reclining again with her top still in place—an improvement to the situation, they both thought silently. She reached back to pick up a floppy straw beach hat from the ground behind her chair, settling it low over her face so that only her lips were visible.

“So. Quinnvering.” Santana’s voice had regained its normal biting undertone, a much more comfortable arrangement for them both. “What about you. You pluck Berry’s bud yet?”

Quinn choked on the swallow of beer in her mouth, the bottle clinking audibly against her teeth as she lurched forward to hang over the side of her chair, coughing and snorting. Santana’s cackle escaped before she could capture it, the hand not holding her beer coming up to barely lift the brim of her hat so she could watch the blonde struggle.

"What? I know you shaved off your 'Grow-Your-Own Rasta Jesus' beard at graduation..."

“Do you always have to be so—” Quinn rasped, cutting herself off with another brief coughing fit before swallowing and glaring at Santana, who only laughed harder at the dirty look.

“You can’t fool me, Fabray.” She taunted, letting the brim of her hat fall back over her face and resting her arms over her head. “All this ‘super bffs forever’ bullshit you started with her this year, I know that game.”

“That’s not—” Quinn started.

“I’ve seen how you look at her, Quinn.” The brunette’s tone had dropped the laughter, an odd element to the sudden weight in the air around them without eye contact.

“When you’re this kinda hotness, you see that look all the time.” Santana attempted to backtrack with the flippant comment, but Quinn surprised her by responding in kind to the honesty.

“There’s something about her...” Her voice was low and soft and Santana found herself idly wondering when exactly they’d gotten back to being these kind of friends. “Something there, something she has, or—or _is_ , I don’t know...” Santana didn’t move or say anything, surprised at the admission and too curious to startle the blonde from her moment.

“I can’t—I just want to understand her.”

Okay, that shit, all wistful? That was too much.

“‘ _Understand_ ’ her, Q? Really?” Santana sat up straight and pushed the hat off the back of her head, leveling a dubious look at Quinn. “You want her. Obviously.” Her face scrunched like she’d swallowed a bug. “No accounting for taste, of course... but given your track record, it’s obvious that you’re tasteless so that should probably be a given.”

Quinn glared at the brunette, her eyes shuttering and shifting colors in a blink.

“At least I know I would _keep_ her if I ever got her.” She hissed and Santana flinched momentarily.

“Oh, what _ever_ , Quinn, please.” Santana spat, shaking her head. “It’s real easy to sit there and judge how I handle my business when you can’t even _visit_ yours.” She leaned forward and her voice dropped to a deliberate whisper. “How’s Beth?”

Quinn’s mouth tightened to a thin line as she stood up quickly and cleared her throat.

“This visit is over. Thank you for reminding me why I don’t talk to you.” Santana blinked in shock as Quinn shoved her feet into her sandals and grabbed her towel, stuffing it into her tote bag angrily.

“Oh my god, are you serious right now?” Santana asked incredulously, watching the hurried actions.

“I don’t know why I always think—” Quinn paused, turning to pin Santana with a tumult of emotions blending in her stare. “Someday, Santana. Someday you’ll feel what it’s like to be really alone. Maybe _then_ you’ll stop making people want to leave you.”

She turned to walk away and Santana’s jaw dropped open. She was taking off over _that?_ Seriously?

“Hey, Quinn, wait!” She called after the blonde. Quinn stopped a few paces away, turning her head in response without turning all the way around.

“Hangin’ out with Berry’s rubbing off on you, but your tantrum could still use some work.” Santana grinned meanly. “Maybe if you can find a toddler you’re actually allowed to be around, you can take notes.”

Santana watched Quinn storm off—slamming the wooden gate behind herself with all the force she could muster—and sighed, leaning her head back against her chair again and dozing off. She was in the same position less than an hour later when Quinn stomped back up the stone path, full effect pissy pout firmly in place. Santana lifted her head to eye the girl nonchalantly, a single brow arched in lazy survey.

“I need a tan.” Quinn stated flatly, spreading her towel out and retrieving a fresh beer from the cooler, then sitting down to challenge Santana with a glare. The brunette bit back her smile and lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug, closing her eyes again and leaning back.

“Whatever.” She said lightly in response.

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016_

Santana toed off her shoes and stretched her legs out the length of the boys’ couch, crossing her ankles and slouching down into the cushions. Quinn was always like that, irrational antipathy giving way to moments of begrudging vulnerability, a desperate sort of frailty peeking through the armor and sucking Santana in every time.

She was beginning to realize that even though she’d spent years trying to be what she thought Quinn needed, she was never quite sure exactly what that was. _Quinn_ didn’t even know what Quinn needed, and that’s where she’d been drawing her cues.

The irony was almost comical.

Despite that, if the past three years had taught Santana anything about Quinn Fabray, it was that nothing the woman did or said was ever accidental. Even when events were obviously beyond the blonde’s control, she somehow managed to manipulate the situation to suit her design.

Santana grumpily snatched up the remote to flicker through the channels, rolling her eyes at herself. Quinn had already commanded quite enough of her attention today. Or this month. Or even this year, if she were handing out full-attention time where it was due. Santana was finally tired of deciphering every ‘tentative’ action, sick of decoding all the ‘off-handed’ comments. Reading into the ‘Quinn words,’ as Brittany would say, had gotten old.

She was still doing it. Dammit. Her _future_. She was supposed to be thinking about what the fuck she was going to do with herself now.

The channel stopped on SpongeBob and an idea formed. No one was home, she had the afternoon, and she’d just broken up with her girlfriend of three years—who happened to be in love with someone else the entire time. Santana decided that in the wake of all that, she’d earned a little guilt-free herbal relaxation. Maybe it would even help her calmly consider her future, post-Quinn Fabray.

At the very least, she figured, it would keep her from thinking about it too much.

A couple hours later found Santana upside down on Puck’s bed, her feet propped to the wall above his pillow, his cigar box from under the bed (always so predictable) open beside her. Her gaze was fixed on some point beyond the ceiling, glazed and lost in approximately thirty seven different scenarios, while the late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains to her left making every speck of dust glitter.

It struck her in a brief moment of lucidity that she was _really_ high.

She picked through the confusing fog of her memory, trying to remember when she’d last gotten this stoned. A sudden and uncontrolled giggle erupted from her throat when she realized that it was Puck’s gleek party, when Quinn had made out with Rachel and picked a stupid fight before passing out in the den.

She had smoked herself into a stupor on the roof with the same two guys that looked after Quinn that night. The two guys that would be home soon, to the apartment ( _bro-partment_ ) she was currently taking refuge in.

— — — — — — — — — —

_June, 2014_

“That’s _perfect_ , Brittany, except the twirl should be more like—” there was a pause in Blaine’s backhanded compliment coming from somewhere behind her, “ _thisssss_.” Santana rolled her eyes at the idea of anyone—especially the Lollipop Guild, Shire chapter president—correcting Brittany’s dancing, before re-focusing her attention to the quarter in her hand.

One expert toss later and a single vibrating _‘ting’_ rang outoff the wood of the coffee table, the coin landing in the shot glass directly in front of Mike with a muted ‘ _plink.’_ Santana’s grin was smug as she motioned for him to take the shot.

“Bottoms up, Chang, let’s go.” Mike fished out the quarter before slamming the alcohol with a grimace, Santana giving no recovery time and slapping her hand to the table’s surface. “Next.” He leaned down and uncapped the half-empty bottle of vodka beside him, lifting it shakily with a drunken hiccup. A scowl formed as he attempted to pour into the glass (and not onto the table), not succeeding until he squeezed one eye closed.

“Christ, Mike, can you stop sucking long enough for me to have a hit off the bottle, too, or you just plannin’ on keepin’ it to yourself all night?”

Mike took a deep breath and looked over Santana’s shoulder to the open area of the basement, watching Tina and Brittany dance through the routine they had put together. Blaine’s critical gaze followed their movements from his spot perched on the back of the sofa they’d pushed against the wall.

Slender tan fingers snapped directly in front of Mike’s face, dragging his attention back to his quarters opponent.

“EARTH to tiny dancer....” Santana called out, looking at him disapprovingly. “Don’t tell me you’re down for the count already? MAN! I gave you too much credit, obviously.”

She gave a dramatic sigh and made to get up, stopping when she heard the _ting......plink_ of the quarter. Looking down, she saw it gleaming up at her from the bottom of her shot glass and grinned at him, receiving a challenging lift of his chin in reply.

They played four more rounds—three going to Santana and one to Mike—without incident before Santana’s attention was diverted again (much to Mike’s relief) by her overwhelming dislike for Blaine.

“Hey, Andercest.” She lifted up from the floor to sit cross-legged on the coffee table, facing the makeshift dance floor. “Why don’t you go find our resident castrato before I use some of the ri- _diculous_ amounts of gel in your hair to grease that squeaky third stair over there.”

Blaine paused in his unrequested review of Tina’s execution to turn in Santana’s direction, brows drawn together in question. Startling backwards when he turned, she almost fell to the floor.

“Oh god, the caterpillars on your forehead are mating!” She stared at him with an expression of horror while he rolled his eyes. “Holy _shit_ , that’s disturbing...” She hissed with a shudder. Hopping off the table, she walked carefully closer to him, staring like they might jump off if she moved too quickly. Stopping only a few steps away, she tilted her head to the side and wrinkled her nose. “Nope, isn’t any better close up.”

“You can drop the bravado, Santana,” Blaine smiled at her condescendingly. “Everyone here already knows the insults are just your way of hiding your own insecurities and shortcomings.” He reached out to pat her arm and she nearly snapped her jaws at him. “It’s okay, you’ll grow out of it when you find something worthwhile about yourself.”

“Since you mentioned it, speaking of what ‘everyone here already knows,’” The saturated sweetness dripping off her tone was scary to anyone who knew her well. Tina and Brittany, recognizing the situation for what it was becoming, both wandered off—Tina to check on her semi-conscious boyfriend and Brittany upstairs for a drink.

Santana paused while she watched the blonde walk away then snapped her gaze back to Blaine with a predatory grin, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’re only here because Thumbelina likes his Chia-fro boy-candy on a short leash. But you might wanna keep Sebastian’s number, because when—please notice that I’m not saying if— _when_ you two inevitably break up, at least you already know that douchebag has an affinity for this...” she waved her hand in his direction with a mildly disgusted look on her face, “this vaguely Eurasian pseudo-camp counselor plus bow-tie _thing_ you’re rocking.”

Turning her back to him when he somehow actually looked hurt, she lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug as she walked towards the vodka bottle still on the coffee table.

“Why don’t you go find Kurt... you can tell him an inspiring anecdote about the terrible bullying you’ve overcome down here.”

“I haven’t attacked you, Santana. I don’t understand why you’re so mean.” Blaine’s voice was quiet and non-aggressive and Santana felt a twinge of guilt lance through her. Keeping her head down, she poured herself another shot without answering him. “Kurt just left with Finn get ice, but I do have other friends here, you know—even if _you_ don’t like me.”

He started to walk away haughtily and she thought it best to let him, until the first half of his response actually registered to her.

“There’s no way we needed ice, what dumbass didn’t check the garage freezer? Better watch out, Finn-nane _has_ always been your boyfriend’s quarterback wet dream.” Blaine kept walking while he shrugged at her, rolling his eyes.

“ _Your_ girlfriend said it, not Finn. She came into the living room when we were about to karaoke and said we were out of ice...” He started up the stairs, his voice echoing down to her in a patronizing tone. “So, naturally, they went to get ice.”

Santana sat down on the coffee table again, wrapping her arms around herself with her brow furrowed. Quinn said they needed ice, but Quinn was the one who filled up the garage freezer with Santana earlier. Quinn knew they weren’t out of ice, and Quinn knew that Finn was the DD for the night. Santana shook her head, trying to shake the niggling feeling like something was off.

“SAN— **NO**!” There was a crash from upstairs. “Get...get _offa_ me—SANTANA!!” Speak of the devil, she heard Quinn’s voice screeching and the sounds of a struggle filtering down the stairwell. Santana was on her feet and up the stairs in seconds, bursting through the basement door to see Brittany, Quinn, and Blaine in the kitchen, all frozen in place at her loud entrance.

Blaine had one hand wrapped around Quinn’s upper arm, the blonde fighting him to get to the hallway, while Brittany stood blank-faced behind them in the doorway to the backyard. Seeing the brunette, Blaine let go immediately and pointed at Santana.

“Look, she’s right there! Now, you’re not driving _any_ where. The guys can take you when they get back.” He folded his arms into what Santana assumed was his ‘Miss No-Nonsense’ pose and looked desperately to her for help. Quinn spun around to look at Santana, her eyes glassy and swimming as they tried to focus on her girlfriend.

“San! When...when are you _ever_ gun—” she hiccuped and Brittany flinched, “gonna be like that for _me_?” Quinn teetered on her feet and slumped against the wall behind her, Santana’s brows furrowing in confusion and concern, while Blaine just inched his way away from the awkward scene.

“Q, baby, what are you talking about?” Walking towards Quinn, Santana jerked her head at Blaine in the direction of the living room, the boy thankful for the out to the situation. The blonde’s expression soured when Santana took her hand, Quinn jerking it away with a snarl.

“ _No!_ No, you don’t.. you can’t unner- _stand,_ Santana!” Trying to contain her snicker, the brunette reached for Quinn’s hand again only to have the drunk girl land a stinging slap to her cheek. “Don’t fucking laugh at me.” Quinn glared, her body still swaying ever so slightly. Santana’s eyes widened in shock and she grabbed Quinn’s wrist, pinning it to the wall by her waist.

“That’s about enough of your shit, _Judy_.” Leaning in to hiss through clenched teeth, Santana grabbed and pinned the other wrist, her grip tightening as Quinn started to fight the hold. She bucked and thrashed, screaming and beginning to panic when she couldn’t get free.

“Quinn, just calm—fuck!” Santana growled, yelping in surprise when she was suddenly lifted off her feet and swung around. “What th—”

“Sorry, Santana...” Sam’s deep voice rumbled simultaneously near her ear and through her back, where his chest was pressed as he carried her with arms locked around her waist. She could hear Quinn still screaming curses behind them, the soothing timbre of Puck’s voice trying to calm her following them down the hallway as Sam walked.

“Maybe Puck’s room?” Brittany’s voice was unexpected and low, coming from directly behind Sam’s shoulder and the sound of it immediately fizzled out the fight in Santana. She felt Sam’s nod as he turned them towards the staircase leading to the second floor, Quinn’s protests fading from earshot the further they moved from the kitchen.

Once upstairs and through the door to Puck’s room, Sam dropped her gently on the bed and stepped back, burying both hands in his shaggy hair and lacing his fingers together on top of his head. He looked back and forth between Brittany quietly leaning against the door and Santana glaring from the bed, raising his eyebrows and puffing out his cheeks. Chicks were a _lot_ of drama.

As he watched the two have a silent conversation from their respective corners he decided they might also be telepathic, because it looked like there was some serious shit flying back and forth. Figuring that he should leave them to it, Sam shuffled towards the door in hopes of ninja’ing his way out of the room without being too intrusive.

Brittany stepped towards the bed and out of his way without breaking eye contact with Santana, and Sam ducked his head as he tried to slink by.

“She was making out with Rachel.” The statement seemed to echo even though Brittany’s voice had been normal volume, and Sam froze with his hand on the door knob. Santana’s brows furrowed deeply and her mouth dropped open.

“Wha—Who was?” The words croaked out of Santana’s throat at the same moment as it occurred to her that in the whole mess, Brittany had just watched.

“I’ll just—” Sam started to say quietly, pointing to the door with his head still down.

“Quinn.” Brittany replied flatly. Her face—always so open—looked pained by the words; she was looking at Santana desperately, begging the other girl to take the weight of the information from her.

Puck stormed through the door in that suspended moment, successfully breaking the surface tension of the room.  Narrowly missing catching the door with his face, Sam stumbled backwards while Brittany rushed forward to where Santana sat on Puck’s bed.

“ _Your_ fucking girlfriend, dude!” Pointing at Santana, Puck clenched his fists and shook them with a growl before dropping to all fours at the edge of his bed, bending down to dig underneath. “I dunno how you fuckin’ live with her... she’s _evil_!”

The words filtered up through the mattress, the muffled noise of things being shifted around coming with them while the girls blinked at each other and listened from on top of the bed.

“And like, _fuck_ her, y’know? She doesn’t know shit...”

Santana, Brittany, and Sam all watched as Puck crawled out from under the bed with a cigar box in his hand. He got to his feet with a grunt and grinned at Santana, holding up the box.

“Fuck her.” He emphasized the statement with a shake of the box, then spun on his heel and headed directly for the window. After pushing it open and throwing one leg out, he paused to turn and look back at the room. “Come or don’t, I’m goin’ to smoke—party is officially relocating.”

He stepped out onto the roof and Santana thought about it for approximately twelve nanoseconds before climbing off the bed to follow him. She turned back and her gaze met Brittany’s—the alcohol and the evening making it twinkle with just a touch of madness—holding for a moment before she gave an apologetic smile and half shrug, then ducked out after Puck.

“San!” There was a half-second where Brittany thought Santana would ignore her call before the brunette poked her head back in, her smile tight and brows raised in question. Brittany just sighed, looking down at her fingers hesitantly.

“I’m gonna go check on her...” Her voice was soft, almost tentative. “She got puke on my shoes.” Brittany’s tone suggested this was an explanation. “I’ll be back soon, though, and we’ll go home, okay?” Blue eyes met brown and their expression was hopeful; Santana was nodding before she realized it. Brittany beamed at her and bounded off towards the door and it was Santana’s turn to sigh.

“C’mon, Trouty... bowl’s a’burnin’ without us.”

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016_

“Dude, do you smell that?” Sam’s voice coming from the other room startled her awake.

The smell of Puck’s super musky cologne with a little sweat mixed in was the next thing to register.

Santana’s eyes popped open immediately in fear when she recognized it, thinking the worst of herself until the bed beside her was empty. She drew a shaky breath of relief. It was Puck’s bed, though, and that was a little uncomfortable by itself.

“Yeah, bro.” Speak of the devil. “It’s my stash.” That’s right, Puck’s weed; the previous few hours slowly began to materialize in Santana’s memory.

“Guess she made herself at home.” The door to his bedroom creaked open and she waved sheepishly from upside down on his bed where she’d fallen asleep. Puck gave her a fond grin and shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door jamb. “Find yourself some sticky-icky, San?”

Santana sat up and ran a hand through her hair, she still felt hazy from the weed despite the nap. She stretched and listened to her spine pop in realignment before rolling off the bed and stumbling towards him and the door.

“Come sit on your couch with me.” She rasped, turning him around by the shoulders. Positioning his body in front of herself, she walked them towards the living room with one hand pushing him along. “Then you two can tell me about your playdate with Emotionally Unavailable Barbie.” Sam watched the procession from the doorway of his room, Santana snagging his sleeve as they passed to drag him along.

“So.” Pushing them both down on the sofa, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared them down. “What’d she say?” When the guys just looked at each other before looking away, neither choosing to answer, she scoffed and started to pace in front of them.

It was a delicate balance for them, trying to be a shoulder to both sides and keep their own opinions separate, despite having the observer perspective to the whole situation. Puck only knew that he loved them both too much to let either of them renege on the break-up.

“She, uh—she asked about you? Like, how you are.” Sam’s voice was uncertain and Puck punched his arm. “Ow! _What_?”

“Dude!” Puck hissed, gaze darting to Santana a second later. “Look, she’s not super happy, you aren’t either; it’s a breakup and that’s just how it goes.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down between them, throwing an arm around her shoulder and squeezing. “But you did the right thing, S... for both of you.” She scowled at the soft encouragement, shoulders slumping under the truth of his words.

Sam nodded but stayed quiet, rubbing his arm and directing his massive pout towards Puck over Santana’s head.

“I gotta know, though...” Puck never thought about things too far in advance before speaking and the question had been bouncing around in his mind ever since the conversation with Quinn earlier in the day.

Santana _hmm_ ’d a reply, leaning heavier into his shoulder.

“Did she _really_ think no one knew what was going on with her at the wedding?” Sam wasn’t able to hold in the scoff, his gaze snapping to Puck while Santana just snorted, laying her head back against Puck’s arm and closing her eyes.

“Sounds like you guys had a fun conversation...” She said dryly, not opening her eyes.

— — — — — — — — — —

_June, 2015_

“Does she _really_ think she’s fooling anyone?”

“All I’m saying is: Poor Santana, y’know? Like, _ouch_ , girlfriend.”

“I heard it’s been going on for _years_.”

“Nuh _-uh_!”

The whispered conversation filtered up from the rows behind Santana, her ear catching her own name and tuning in. Her jaw tightened as she recognized Kurt, Mercedes, and Tina’s voices discussing her _life_ , her teeth grinding together as she glanced out of the corner of her eye at Quinn seated beside her.

Hazel eyes were still glazed, a waxworks-stiff mask of the girl sat swallowing every few moments with her wedding program twisted between her fingers. The blonde gave the blandest of responses to people as they passed in the awkward shuffle to their seats, only her flat gaze occasionally flickering at their greetings.

Santana tightened her grip on her own fingers, fixing her eyeline forward in an effort to ignore the sting.

Quinn had been withdrawn since they’d left the apartment in Stamford the day before. At first, Santana had tried to convince herself it was just being in Lima that was bothering the girl; their hometown always drew out the worst in Quinn. As her demeanor had darkened into the near catatonia currently headlining, though, it had grown progressively harder to ignore the actual catalyst to the sullen blonde’s mood.

The traditional music started up and Santana was relieved for the distraction from her thoughts. The crowd hushed, Santana turning with everyone else to look back as the bride entered the chapel on a beaming Leroy Berry’s arm.

Santana ignored the small gasp from her right when Rachel first appeared, continuing to ignore her girlfriend’s radiating depression for the remainder of the ceremony. She found that actually watching it was preferable to thinking about her own love life, especially with the surprising discovery that she _wasn’t_ nauseated by Finn-sipid and Berry’s declarations of undying devotion.

At the reception afterwards, Santana found genuine entertainment in watching Rachel’s boisterous and liberal Jewish family awkwardly try to mix with Finn’s terminally Caucasian clan of Baptists, but every time she caught a sympathetic glance tossed in her direction she was forced to think of the pining blonde again.

She had left Quinn at a table picking at a plate of hors devours and staring at the wedding cake like it held all evil in the world, while she wandered off to find someone that would actually speak back at her. Brittany was in the middle of the dance floor with Mike, Tina in the circle of people cheering the pair on as they performed a classic swing dance to the music. Santana leaned against the bar and watched the two, a fond sense of nostalgia warming her chest and successfully distracting her for a moment.

A touch to her elbow caught her attention and she turned to find Quinn’s haunted gaze blinking back at her.

“Can we go?” The question was soft and the voice behind it hollow, Santana just nodding sharply when she didn’t trust her own response. The toasts had barely finished, the happy couple finishing their first married dance just before Mike and Brittany had stolen the spotlight. Santana knew the reception would probably continue for another couple of hours, but also that she and Quinn weren’t breaking any hearts by ditching early.

Santana said goodbyes for the both of them—claiming illness to cover for her girlfriend’s stoic behavior—while Quinn waited in the car, spending the ride back to her mom’s just as silent as she’d been the rest of the day.

“Are you gonna talk to me at _all_ today... or what?” Santana didn’t turn her head from her spot behind the wheel, elbow to the windowsill while her other hand steered the car. Quinn slowly turned her head to the side, the motion eerie in its stillness but not so much as the lifelessness in her gaze.

“And say what?” Quinn’s voice was empty, the girl Santana knew detached from the words between them. “What do you want to hear?” She was unnerved to realize that a permeating aura of ambivalence surrounded the words—Quinn truly didn’t care what she had to say to buy herself more silence, that much was clear.

Santana shook her head silently, unwilling to betray the lump in her throat by speaking.

Despite the sun barely dipping below the horizon, when they got to the house Quinn bee-lined for her bedroom and crawled under the covers of her bed, curling up into a ball.

Santana followed her in, standing awkwardly in the doorway staring helplessly after the blonde for a few long seconds before making a decision. She quietly stepped over to the bed and crawled in beside Quinn, powering on the television and settling in as close to the other girl as she could get without actually touching.

— — —

Santana blinked her eyes open to inky darkness, the disorientation slowly fading as her eyes adjusted and the features of Quinn’s bedroom became recognizable. She heard a slight shuffle of footsteps from the other side of the room behind her, then the soft creak of the door opening.

Quinn. She realized what had woken her: the blonde climbing out of bed.

She waited a few heartbeats before silently shifting the covers and padding out of the room, the sliver of light shining from under the bathroom door giving away Quinn’s location. Tip-toeing down the hallway, she craned her neck to put her ear by the door, listening for her girlfriend.

Santana almost stumbled backwards when a choked sob came through the wood, her stomach sinking in on itself. The sounds were muffled but unmistakable, Quinn was crying and unlike the wedding earlier, Santana couldn’t ignore why.

Her feet carried her backwards, her steps halting as she tried to suppress her own tears. Covering her mouth with her hand to hold in the sounds she couldn’t choke back, she stumbled down the stairs and out the front door; her brain on auto-pilot as her feet followed a familiar path.

The next thing Santana was aware of was climbing the tree outside Brittany’s window, the room and the person inside it the first safe refuge her subconscious had come up with.

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016_

“We never even talked about it. Just... pretended it didn’t happen that way.” Santana shook her head, her voice wooden and subdued. “She didn’t even call until like, six the next evening.” She scoffed. “And that was only ‘cause we had to get to the airport to go home.”

Puck pulled his arm back from around her shoulders, dragging it roughly back and forth over his ‘hawk in frustration.

“Dude, I don’t get it. Like, _why_?” He looked at her starkly, Sam chiming in to back him up.

“Yeah, San. I love Quinn, but like, you deserve better than to chase someone’s second place...” She pinned him with an intense stare and he flushed, looking down. “I mean, everyone does, y’know?” She took a deep breath, looking down at her lap and it struck both of them that she seemed to shrink before them.

“It wasn’t _always_ like that...” She let the breath out with the words.

In her mind, a montage of moments she’d held close—the first time Quinn had spontaneously told her ‘I love you,’ all the lazy and sweet Saturday mornings they’d shared, cuddling on the sofa together watching Real Housewives on rainy afternoons—passed through her thoughts. She snapped out of her memories with Puck and Sam looking at her dubiously from either side.

“Look, it was three fucking years, okay? I know you bastions of committment know everything there is to know about relationships, but I wouldn’t have stayed that whole time if she wasn’t at least putting on a good show of it.”

— — — — — — — — — —

_December, 2014_

Santana tightened her ponytail as she walked back out on the floor of the restaurant slash bar she was both cursed and lucky enough to call employment. The muscle-memory of the action had an armoring effect, stiffening her shoulders and raising her chin just that fraction of an inch. She knew she just had to finish this shift—only a few more hours now that her break was over—and then she could go home and salvage the rest of the holiday.

Quinn would be landing in Dayton within twenty minutes, getting settled at her mom’s house about an hour after that, and hopefully, Santana could be home in time to Skype with her before it was officially Christmas.

Seriously, _fuck_ staying open normal hours for Christmas Eve, and double-fuck seniority dictating who got stuck with holiday shifts. The emptiness of the building went unnoticed by the brunette—who went out for Christmas Eve, anyways?—as she made her way to the bar from memory, lost in thought.

“B3 requested you, very dramatic and withdrawn, said she’d wait—very _hot_.” The bartender—Telly—informed her conspiratorially when she leaned against his counter. He was flamboyant, stylish, and always very straightforward, and Santana had fallen in gay-love with him the first time they’d met. She rolled her eyes, turning to scan for the table he’d named, hoping it wasn’t one of her four regulars she uneasily referred to as ‘restraining orders.’

Looking around, she noticed that there were no other tables occupied, only her B3 in the back corner. Walking up to it cautiously, she was shocked to see a familiar blonde seated in the booth, a shy smile curling her lips.

“Hey, San.” Quinn propped her chin on her fist, blinking penetrating hazel eyes at Santana’s shocked expression with an innocent smile. “How’s work?”

“Wha—Your flight home? What about Christmas?” Santana let herself be pulled down into the booth, Quinn shrugging as she wrapped her arms around Santana in a tight hug, burying her face in the brunette’s neck and inhaling deeply.

“I like you better than my mom, anyway.”

— — — — — — — — — —

_February, 2016_

Santana felt her stomach twist; she knew Quinn loved her, she knew it as surely as she knew Brittany or Puck loved her. They all had their own certain ways of showing it, Quinn’s was just a little quieter and sharper than most.

Tears welled up as Santana finally realized it wasn’t a question of love or not, anymore. She had to set them both free, because Quinn never would.

“Of course she did, S. No one is saying she didn’t make a good _show_ of it sometimes.” Puck’s voice was low and comforting. “Just that maybe—”

“I just miss her, okay?” Santana didn’t let him continue, her shaky voice cutting in. “But I’m not trying to go back, you don’t have to pep-talk me.” She sighed, leaning forward and shaking off his arm from her shoulders, her hands coming up to fold together tightly. “It wouldn’t be good for either of us, and I know that.”

She groaned in the frustration of acceptance and got up, walking resolutely towards the kitchen and rifling through the cupboards noisily. Sam shot a questioning look at Puck, who held one finger up in a ‘wait’ gesture, head cocked to the side to listen.

“Where’s your tequila, Puckerman? I know you have some...” The shout echoed back and Puck grinned, pointing towards the kitchen and nodding.

“Santana Lopez heartbreak repair, phase one: get retarded drunk.” He said in explanation, slapping a hand to Sam’s thigh as he lifted himself from the sofa and headed towards the kitchen. “She’s gonna be fine.”


End file.
